


The Comeback Kid

by tulipwriter



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., US Presidential Campaign
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mostly Sweet and Innocent, Political Campaigns, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 15:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20677496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tulipwriter/pseuds/tulipwriter
Summary: In 2008, Pete Buttigieg is an underachieving adjunct professor at a small college in Michigan, licking his wounds after a failed bid to become the mayor of South Bend, Indiana. There he meets a student named Chasten, and his journey to becoming a presidential candidate begins.





	1. 2008

**Author's Note:**

> Here's what happened. I was writing a story that just would not work for me. At the same time, I was reading a book called Shortest Way Home, and I got to the point where the obnoxiously talented kid-mayor-slash-author uses the word countenance-- _unironically_\-- and I thought "is this guy a character from a Jane Austen novel or something?" Two things, Pete Buttigieg as a romantic hero character and my story, fused together in my mind and became this.

\- 2008 -

It had taken Pete Buttigieg years to accept that being gay was a simple fact of who he was. It was part of him, like having brown hair, and he could no more change one than the other. 

He scribbled this analogy down on a cocktail napkin. It was a weeknight, and he was at a pub he’d never been to before because he couldn’t stand the loneliness of his apartment for one more hour. He was bored, and when he got bored his mind tended to wander and produce prose. 

He realized his blue eyes would better serve the point he was trying to make-- because hair dye-- but he thought drawing attention to them came across as conceited. He knew his eyes were strikingly blue because grandmothers the world over said so right before pinching his cheek. And from high school on, it was well-meaning girls who would squeal over them, all while he silently prayed none of them noticed he was using those eyes to check out their boyfriends. Which he did only for a second and only when he was sure he wouldn’t get caught. Always keeping his secret. Always careful.

“Let me guess. You’re writing the next great American novel.”

Pete was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn’t notice the bartender standing on the other side of the counter in front of him, dangerously close to being able to decipher what he was writing. He felt exposed, and the declaration of his sexuality that had been a mindless musing up to that point became radioactive. He wanted to get as far away as possible from both it and this bartender.

“Grocery list,” he lied.

He balled up the napkin and shoved it into the depths of his back pocket. Regardless of what he scribbled down, Pete Buttigieg did not, in fact, accept that he was gay. Not really. He knew it was true. He cleared that hurdle about five years ago when it finally sunk in that all the wishful hoping in the world wasn’t going to make him more attracted to women. So he stopped dragging them along on the failed experiment of proving to himself that he wasn’t _gay_ gay, and stopped dating entirely. But that’s as far as he would budge. Coming out, living openly, dating men-- not an option.

Because he could live without romantic attachments, but a life without public service felt barren and rudderless. He failed at his first attempt at elected office and he didn’t plan to lose again. Coming out would end his ambitions right where he sat. Even his current job as a professor wasn’t safe. Academia was a safe and comforting progressive bubble, but there were no guarantees. The calendar read 2008 but he could still be fired for being gay and even the _liberal_ running for president didn’t think two men should be allowed to get married.

Not that Pete ever planned to get married.

“Can I get you another one of these?” the bartender asked.

Pete glanced over at his empty beer glass. Did he drink that already? Guess it was going to be one of those evenings. He nodded his consent for another round. 

“It’s a shame about that novel you’re not writing,” the bartender said, grabbing for Pete’s empty glass and putting it under the tap. “I was hoping you would name a character after me.” 

That lifted Pete right out of his fog. “And what would I be calling this character?” His voice came out huskier than expected. Beer.

“Chasten.”

He glanced up and allowed himself to really notice the bartender who up to that point had been background noise. Aqua eyes sparkled behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. His hair was that formerly-blond-child color and swept across his forehead into a widow’s peak. When he smiled, which he seemed to do as a matter of course, little lines crinkled around this mouth and it was freakishly endearing. He wore a button down shirt tucked into the kind of fitted jeans Pete refused to even try on. What ever happened to bootcuts? He missed the 90s. Another thing he noticed was how young he was. Definitely too young for Pete to be ogling. Probably too young to be tending bar.

“You could write your own book. Name all the characters Chasten.”

“Chasten Chasten gets the call from Mayor Chasten that only he can save Chastenville.” He said it in a mocking deep voice that mimicked a movie trailer, waving his hand through the air as he spoke. A former drama kid if there ever was one.

Pete took a swig of his beer. “I’d read it.”

Chasten chuckled. “I can’t write. Wish I could. I tried to write Harry Potter fanfiction back in middle school. It was extremely horrible. I had to destroy it to save the future of humanity.”

Harry Potter? Young, young, young. 

“Can you imagine if it was _Chasten_ Potter saving the world with magic?” Chasten continued with an almost wistful expression on his face, “Now that’s something that would’ve changed the entire course of my childhood. At the very least, people would stop calling me Austin. You probably wouldn’t understand.”

Not only did he understand, but he’d been called far worse than Austen. Growing up, he heard every imaginable combination involving the word _butt_. The one that stuck with him the most happened in the fifth grade, when Chuck Nagy decided his last name looked a lot like ButtGay and called him that for three solid years. It was not good timing for Pete to discover he had a crush on Chuck Nagy.

“Try me.”

Chasten’s face lit up a little, like he’d wanted to start a club for people dealing with childhood name trauma and couldn’t believe his luck in finding a second member. He leaned in over the bar as if they were about to share a dirty secret. Pete couldn’t believe how adorable he looked in his excitement, and he could feel his pulse begin to race. And then he remembered Chasten could be one of his students.

God, he was only twenty-six and already turning into such a dirty old man.

“So what is it?” Chasten said. “Your name.”

“It’s Pete…”

“Nope. I’ve heard that one.”

Without thinking, Pete reached out to playfully swat Chasten’s elbows, then stiffed and pulled back, hoping no one noticed. “Uh, you didn’t let me finish. It’s, um, my last name. Peter Buttigieg.”

“Boot-edge-edge,” he repeated back. “I like that.”

Pete smiled. “That’s because you haven’t tried to spell it.”

To be honest, he liked that no one could spell his last name because it prevented people-- students-- from googling him. He didn’t need them to know he was a failed mayoral candidate from South Bend, Indiana. That he’d prematurely shot his political load by primarying a popular incumbent and got walloped. That he’d passed up a high paying analyst job to run for office and had to take the first job offer that came along. That he was hiding out in college and books, licking his wounds until he could formulate a comeback plan. No, no one needed to know any of that.

“Your name is familiar to me, though. Where have I heard it before?” Chasten crawled around his mind in search of the leak until he sorted it out. “You’re Professor Pete! One of my friends took one of your lit classes last semester. Said it kicked her ass.”

“James Joyce can do that.” Pete was running out of his refill and wondered if a third beer on a Tuesday would constitute a cry for help.

Chasten groaned. “I had to read _Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man_ in high school. I still have nightmares about those twenty pages I was able to get through.”

“And how long ago was high school for you? Roughly.”

Chasten smiled at that. “Guess you caught on that I’m not exactly a legal bartender. But this town empties out after graduation, and it’s hard to find any job for the summer. So the owner of this place looks the other way, pays me under the table, and I work for half rate.”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugged. “Student loans don’t pay themselves. ”

Pete felt an immediate sense of guilt, however misplaced. He knew he was raised in relative privilege and was lucky enough not to have to take out loans for his education. He didn’t fully understand the struggles his students faced. But Chasten’s tone didn’t suggest he sought pity. Instead, he had an air of steely determination about him.

“I’m guessing you’re stuck here teaching summer classes?”

As an adjunct, Pete needed to teach year round to make ends meet. But he hated summer classes. The students were all drive-bys, breezing through his classroom to get somewhere better, engineering and business majors who stuffed their liberal arts requirements into summer sessions to get them over with as quickly and mindlessly as possible. Four weeks later, they memorized enough to get a passing grade and couldn't tell Henry James from Charlotte Bronte.

“I’m guessing you’re stuck here taking them.”

Chasten nodded. “I got a late start to the whole proper college thing. I wanted to transfer in as a sophomore but didn’t have enough credits so here I am. I’m determined to graduate on time. Get that diploma on the wall, make the parents proud.”

“I’m sure you will.” Pete drained the last of his glass. He had a morning class tomorrow. Time to get home to his sad little apartment, watch some television and then go to bed. A total waste of an evening-- waste of a life, if he thought about it. So he didn’t.

“Don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you in one of my classes,” he added.

“Erm, no. Definitely not. No offense or anything, but I’d stick something sharp in my eye before I’d take another lit class.”

Pete snorted. “Fair enough.”

He took a twenty and a five out of his back pocket and handed them both to Chasten. “The twenty is for you, ok? Don’t split it with the staff and don’t let the owner see it. That’s what the other five is for.”

He told himself he would have done it for any student he saw getting ripped off by his employer. And he would have. Just the same, he felt weird about it for some reason.

“I can’t take this,” Chasten shoved Mr. Andrew Jackson back in Pete’s direction. “All I did was pour you a beer. It’s not even good beer.”

“Tell you what. Promise to give _Portrait of an Artist_ another try and we’ll call it even.” He put his hands in his pockets to signal there was no further negotiation.

Chasten tucked the bill away and gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

Back out on the sidewalk, Pete pulled the balled up napkin out of his pocket and read his scratchy handwriting: 

_I was well into adulthood before I was prepared to acknowledge the simple fact that I am gay. It took years of struggle and growth for me to recognize that it’s just a fact of life, like having brown hair, and part of who I am._

He’d written a coming out story. Maybe he would write it down one day for real.

He looked back through the pub windows and in the bright lights could see Chasten mopping the bar with a rag.

Maybe he would.


	2. 2009

\- 2009 -

Pete hated these arena like lecture halls, with their rows upon rows of seats staring down at him. It always made him feel like he was in the Colosseum about to get eaten by a lion. It was unavoidable with these 100-level classes. He was teaching “Survey of British Literature before 1945” for the spring semester and there were more than a hundred names on the class roster, most of which he would never connect to a face. For the next four months, he would be teaching into a void.

The last seconds before class began ticked down and the students funneled in from the top of the classroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a lanky kid practically skipping down the stairs, his arm draped over a pretty girl’s shoulders as they moved in unison. There was something familiar about this young man with the dark blond hair and the horn rimmed glasses, but Pete couldn’t place him.

An hour later, after a lecture he was positive a third of the class napped through, he made a show of gathering his things. He didn’t actually have any things to gather. He just pushed some papers around his podium to give students the chance to approach him on their own terms. This part was kind of awkward for Pete. Lecturing, any kind of public speaking, that was his wheelhouse. One-on-one interaction-- not so much. He liked to have something to do with his hands, a reason to break eye contact.

The students instinctively queued up in front of the stage to speak with him. He assured the first, that, yes, she really did have to buy all the books for the class. The second was that kid who had already read the syllabus books and seemed to be taking the class just to get off on his superior knowledge (there was always one). Next up was a student wanting to know when they were going to _take the survey_. Pete had no response for that. Some people should not be in college.

And then there was the vaguely familiar young man, standing in front of him with a twinkle in his eye.

“Professor Pete, remember me?”

It came back to him. The bartender from the grody pub. He never went back after that night, and hadn’t seen Chasten around campus until now.

Pete reached inside his leather messenger bag, a gift from his mom, and rummaged around until he felt the outline of a letter opener. He handed it to Chasten.

“What’s this for?”

“To stick in your eye.”

“Hardy har. So you do remember.”

“I had it on good authority that you would never be caught dead in one of these classes.”

Pete noticed that Chasten’s glasses were different from the last time they met. Very similar in style, but not the same. When he got back to his office he was going to google “photographic memory” because having one was the only logical justification for recalling this level of detail.

Chasten shrugged. “Some of my credit transfers from community college didn’t come through and I’m short a core credit. It was either take this or Feminist Literature in Colonial America,” He then quickly added: “Not that I have a problem with feminism or anything.”

“It’s ok. I get it.”

Chasten furrowed his brow. “Why there a bunch of blank papers scattered over your podium?”

Pete’s smile was interrupted when one of the students further in line shouted out: “Hey, if you two are done your date, some of us have actual questions we’d like to address. Today.”

Pete froze. Chasten just rolled his eyes.

“Well, just wanted to say hello. You’ll have to forgive Dave here. He’s on the football team and they have a big game to lose tonight so he’s in a bit of a rush.”

“Not fair, Chasten!” Dave said. “We tied up that last game.”

“Because you tripped over a player and landed on a fumbled ball!” Chasten shouted behind him. 

A muffled retort insisted that “it still counted.”

“In any case, see you around, Professor.”

“Yeah, see you around.”

*****

Chasten knocked on Pete’s already-open office door. It was a month into the semester, and Chasten was clutching the results of their first exam. The one on which Pete wrote in red lettering: “D. See me during office hours.” He had hated to do it. He could tell when students were putting in the work and when they were slacking off, and Chasten was solidly in the former category. But his exam essays deserved the grade Pete gave them. One of his students was inexplicably drowning and he needed to discover the reason why.

“Is this a good time?”

Pete shoved the granola bar he’d been snacking on back into its wrapper and waved Chasten into his office. “Of course. Have a seat.”

Pete’s office demonstrated exactly what the college thought him on a professional level. It was a narrow, windowless cubby that fit only a small desk and a chair on either side. 

“So about the test,” Chasten said, plopping down into the seat across from him with a dramatic air of distress.

Pete sighed. “I have to admit I’m at a loss, Chasten. In class discussions, you stand out from a hundred of your peers. You analysis is insightful. Your argument last week that _North and South_ was essentially _Pride and Prejudice_ fanfiction is the kind of connection I expect a grad student to make.”

“But? There’s always a but.”

“I’m not seeing that student in this blue book. What happened?”

Chasten buried his head in his hands. “I told you I was a bad writer.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem. You have good ideas, but they’re not organized. You tend to make a point, then try to expand on it three paragraphs later. It makes your essay difficult to follow. And while I’m not grading your spelling, I had trouble making out some of the words. You appear to confuse words that sound similar, like here where you used ‘definitely’ when you clearly meant to write ‘definitively.’”

Chasten groaned. “I feel like such an idiot.”

Pete sharply shook his head. “You’re not an idiot, Chasten. I apologize if I’m contributing to that feeling. I can get a bit in the weeds. Honestly, the biggest problem is that you didn’t finish the test. You should have devoted equal time to all three essay questions, but you went into greater depth than necessary on the first, seemed to rush through the second-- still passable-- but the third is just a couple of sentences.”

“I’ve always had time management problems.”

And that’s when it occurred to Pete that Chasten had heard all this before. From his reactions, or lack thereof, these were not new problems. And probably the reason he hadn’t wanted to take a lit class.

“Would you mind moving your chair a bit over to your left?” Pete asked on a hunch. “My legs are killing me in this tiny office and I’d like to stretch them out.”

Chasten appeared to think about it and then hesitantly shifted his chair. To his right.

Pete knew a bit about the school’s policy on special accommodations for students with dyslexia, and he knew how difficult it was for students to prove to the college they needed them. And that was with an official diagnosis going back years. Someone like Chasten just got left behind. 

“How would you feel about taking your exams in my office from now on? There’s only two more before the final.”

Chasten looked skeptical.

“I don’t want to see you slip through the cracks. I think extended time would eliminate a lot of the problems you’re having. This is the only way I can think to do it.”

“Is that allowed? You won’t get in trouble with the college?”

“They only implant tracking microchips in the tenured professors. You can’t discuss the arrangement with anyone, though. I mean it. Not even your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“The redhead you sit next to. I think it’s best you take the exam the night before. You have to swear you won’t share the exam questions, except on the final which is open book.”

“You think Mona is my girlfriend?”

An amused expression spread across Chasten’s face. He almost looked _pleased_ with himself. Pete couldn’t understand it. The conversation they were having seemed pretty serious to him.

“Huh? Who’s Mona?”

“I’ll take the exams in your office. And I won’t tell anyone.”

Pete gave him some hints about digital audiobooks on the town library’s Overdrive system and then released him for the evening with the promise to come back any time he needed help.

“Thanks, Professor Buttigieg. I really appreciate this.” He turned back just as he was in the hallway. “And I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m _definitely_, _definitively_ gay.

It was a moment that required an inspired response. Or if not inspired then at least intelligible. Instead he blathered. “Oh. Um, ok. See you in class.”

Also, he had clearly been fishing for Chasten's orientation, however subconsciously. So in addition to the verbal incontinence, he was also wildly inappropriate and maybe a predator.

He banged his head against his desk in hopes of knocking the stupid out.

*****

“I can’t believe you’re going to stand over me while I grade this.”

“I’m sitting in front of you, which is very different,” Chasten corrected. He sat diagonally, feet propped up on Pete’s desk, like he did so often now. In the month since that initial exam, he was in the office twice a week. Pete shared his suspicions with him about his learning disability, and, a few jokes aside about how his life was turning into a very special episode of a teen drama, he took it well and was working on coping mechanisms. “We’ve been here two hours, what’s one more?”

“I’ll be done in five minutes.”

“I googled you.”

Pete’s red pen paused in mid air. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did. I can’t believe you ran for mayor at twenty-five. That was so…”

Reckless? Humiliating? Imprudent? Egotistical?

“Brave. I can’t imagine returning to my hometown and putting myself out there like that.”

That part hadn’t been difficult for Pete. He trusted the citizens of South Bend. And they, in return, trusted him with seventeen percent of the vote.

“This attempt at flattery will not be reflected in your grade.”

Chasten scoffed. “I’m having an honest conversation. Trust me, you would know if I was trying to flatter you.” 

Pete closed the blue book and slid it across his desk toward his now grinning student. “Take your A- and get out of my office.”

“Really? An A-?” Chasten’s studied his test results reverently.

“You earned it. There were a couple of places where you lost the plot on Heathcliff, but you made up for it on your interpretation of _A Room with a View_.”

“There’s another election in 2011. In South Bend. You could run again.” 

As if Pete didn’t already know. As if his mom didn’t subtly remind him a couple times a month. As if friends didn’t drop hits that it would be great to see him “move back home sometime in the next year or two.” As if his parents hadn’t clipped last week’s op-ed from the _Tribune_ entitled, “How Buttigieg Could Come Up Tops,” and mailed it to him. He almost choked at the title.

He sighed. “I believe I told you to get out of my office.”

“There wouldn’t be an incumbent this time in the primary.”

“Chasten,” Pete warned. Yes, the two had become friendly. There were always one or two students he got to know pretty well over the course of a semester, although he would admit his relationship with Chasten was a bit closer and less formal. But Pete was still the professor, this was still his office, and he wasn’t going to explain himself.

Chaten put his hands up in mock surrender. “Just a suggestion. Hey, are you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s order a pizza and split it. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I just got an A- in my lit class, and I’d like to celebrate.”

Pete said he could eat. So they ordered a cheesesteak pizza, and he watched in awe as Chasten somehow packed more than half of it into his skinny frame. He wondered whether he was witnessing a youthful appetite, or the result of a kid skipping meals to make ends meet. As Chasten happily munched and chatted between bites, Pete planned out a way he could keep a steady stream of food “he couldn’t possibly finish” in his office without it becoming obvious.

*****

Peter Buttigieg had a decent number of talents, but packing was not one of them. It always took longer than he expected, took up more boxes than he expected, and it was inevitable that he was going to lose his favorite concert t-shirt. As he made his fifth trip down to his car on a sweltering May afternoon, fumbling for his keys, he almost ran into Chasten, who was coming out of the elevator.

“What are you doing here?” Pete asked before his mind switched to more pressing matters: “How’d you get the elevator to work?”

An “Out of Order” sign was still taped to the steel doors.

“Visiting with a friend who lives in the building. And, um, I think that sign is a prank. Well, I know it is. I put it there.”

Motherfucker.

Chasten scratched the back of his neck. “The semester’s over, and my friends had some vodka they needed to clear out of their fridge and… You know, I’m just going to help you with these boxes.” 

Pete insisted they take the stairs back up to his apartment for more and he didn’t hate the way Chasten was huffing a bit behind him.

“Not much is packed. Are you sure you’re moving? Whoa, is that a set of encyclopedias?”

His living room was lined with shelves which were sagging under the weight of books and papers and knick knacks. On the couch, clothing he’d had every intention of washing for the past week spilled out of their basket and tumbled onto the carpet. It was a bit of a mess, but he’d get it cleaned up before he transferred the place over to his subletter.

“I’m not moving. I’m driving some of my stuff down to South Bend to store with my parents and then I’m headed to England for the summer.”

“England?”

“I got the opportunity to teach a seminar at Leeds. Thought it might be a nice change of pace.”

He regretted not going for the Rhodes Scholarship back when it would’ve made sense. At the time, nothing could dissuade him from the idea his decaying home city _needed_ him to run for mayor. Leeds University wasn’t Oxford, but it would have to do for now. At least he would get out of Michigan. 

“Oh.”

The light in Chasten’s eyes faded out a bit. Pete felt terrible. The last couple of days were a blur with finals and a stack of exams to grade. His departure plans were far from his mind. He didn’t even think to mention it. He didn’t like to think of himself as an inconsiderate person, but he was staring at proof that he sometimes was.

“I’m sorry. I should have said.”

Chasten wouldn’t look up at him. “What would you tell me for?”

“Because you’re a friend.”

The sunshine poured back into Chasten. “Well, you might be leaving for summer session, but I’m staying because I’ve changed my major to education. I want to become a teacher. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

He scoffed. “I certainly hope not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You’ll be a great teacher. But you deserve a lot better in life than to turn out like me.”

“Better than what? You have a Harvard degree. A place to live, a car, a career. Parents who accept who you are. Friends you won’t alienate by asking to crash on their couch. You haven’t experienced the shame of visiting your professor’s office in hopes he’ll have half a tuna sandwich he was ‘too full to eat.’ From where I’m standing, you have it better than most. And you could have even more if you’d just ask. If you’d just _try_.”

He swallowed. “Ask for what?”

Chasten shook his head. “One of these days you’re going to figure out how to get out of your own way.”

“Chasten…”

“Have a safe flight, Professor Pete.”

He was left alone in his apartment. Always alone. He’d be alone for the rest of his life. He knew that, and he was prepared to accept it. He just hadn’t known what that would feel like until now.


	3. 2010

\- 2010 -

It was ten o’clock, and Pete was starting to think it was getting past his bedtime. The bookstore was emptying out. A Norwegian author whose first book was translated for the American market had given a reading, and Pete was one of only about a dozen people in attendance. He didn’t anticipate it becoming a bestseller.

It was a breezy June evening, and he was determined to enjoy the short walk back to his apartment. Across the street, he heard whoops and hollers coming from a group of college students lurking outside a bar. They were decked out in bright colors and wore glow sticks around their necks and across their wrists. They looked like they were having fun, but, at twenty-eight, Pete was a little leery of young people fun, and he decided to keep walking to cross the street elsewhere.

Until he heard a girl’s voice scream out his name. “Professor Pete!”

He recognized one of his students, Mona. A year earlier, she was the redhead who sat next to Chasten, but now she was one of his brightest lit majors and one of his favorites. It couldn’t hurt to say a quick hello.

“What’s the occasion?”

“It’s Pride!” a boy from the group loudly informed him.

“This town has a Pride celebration? This town doesn’t even have a stoplight.”

“It’s really just the seven of us. We’re also out celebrating Chasten’s birthday,” Mona explained.

He didn’t notice him before, standing in the shadows as he was, but Chasten greeted him with a happy little wave. “Hey, Pete.”

At least he dropped the “Professor” formality. Pete had only seen him a handful of times since he got back from England, and things weren’t the same between them. Chasten acted more guarded, joked around less, and never stayed in his office for more than a couple of minutes. It happened all the time. Students moved on, found different interests and better mentors. People grew up and friends drifted apart.

He didn’t even know it was his birthday.

“Happy Birthday, Chasten.”

“I’m turning twenty-one! I’m gonna be so drunk and get so gay!” Chasten giggled-- actually giggled-- and it was pretty obvious he’d started the celebration early.

“Well, have fun tonight. And remember, kids, the liver is a vital organ.”

Chasten made a dismissive hissing noise. “I think you call me a kid to keep me at an arm’s length. I think you know I’m not a kid.”

A tispy Chasten was apparently an outspokenly honest Chasten.

*****

In his sleep addled state, Pete struggled to discover the source of the thumping noise. He stumbled across his apartment, banged his shin into his couch and knocked over a lamp. Well, that bulb was burnt out anyway. In a more alert frame of mind, he probably would have reservations about opening up his door at three in the morning to whoever was trying to kick it in. Nothing good happened at three in the morning.

“Chasten, what are you doing here?” He didn’t have his contacts in, and the lighting wasn’t great, but he’d know him anywhere. “Are you ok?”

“Sooo great!” He slurred and then started to wobble.

Pete grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him inside, gently angling him against the wall so he wouldn’t topple over. “I’m going to locate my keys, and then I’m taking you home.” Of course, in saying that, he realized he had no idea where Chasten lived, and the only person between them who did wasn’t exactly a reliable source of information at the moment.

Chasten bubbled up in hysterical laughter. “Home? That’s funny! You’re a funny guy, Peter Boot--- Boot-- What’s your last name again?”

“Yeah, my life is a real comedy of errors.”

“Shakespeare! See, you’re so smart. You’re playing pretend and it’s so smart. I know the truth. But I’m not smart. I can’t hide. Everyone would just find me.”

“You’re not making any sense. Put your arm around my shoulders. I’m going to help you over to the couch, and you’re going to sleep off the entire liquor store you drank tonight.” And then tomorrow they were going to have a conversation about what the hell he’d been thinking wandering around town alone, drunk. What the hell was wrong with these friends of his to leave him like this? But that would be tomorrow. Right now, his only concern was making sure Chasten made it through the night without choking on his own vomit.

“I’m not going to remember any of this,” Chasten grumbled. “And I’ve wanted to since forever.”

Chasten’s hand found Pete’s and his breath hitched in his throat. Fingers wove together, slowly and deliberately. Chasten rubbed his thumb against his and Pete’s nerves started to spark and pop like frayed wires. A warming tingle crept up his arm and bled into the rest of his body. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. It was exciting, but also frightening in its intensity. How could he feel this way from touching someone’s hand?

Chasten leaned in, first his nose brushing against Pete’s cheek and then lips finding his. Pete hesitated for a second, but only one, before giving in. In the back of his mind, a voice screamed at him to pump the breaks, that this wasn’t okay, that Chasten was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. But there’s a certain weakness that comes when you haven’t kissed anyone in half a decade and haven’t kissed someone you were this attracted to _ever_. And Peter Buttigieg was no saint.

He ran his hand down the expanse of Chasten’s back and nudged him forward. Chasten ran his fingers through his hair, and Pete was grateful he hadn’t found the time to get it cut. He held onto to Chasten’s hips, like a drowning man in need of a liferaft, fearing for when they might break apart and it would be gone for good.

A strange taste filled his mouth. Chasten moaned. No, not moaned. Winced. This wasn’t right. Blood. The taste was blood. This wasn’t right at all.

He ran to the switch and his apartment flooded with light. The panic set in and adrenaline coursed through his veins. Chasten had a battered eye and a split lip.

“Jesus Christ! Who did this to you?”

Chasten stumbled over to the couch and plopped down belly first. He groaned in pain as his face hit the cushion.

Pete tugged at his shoulders. “Turn on your side. I need to see your eye. I might have to take you to the hospital.”

“No!” Chasten’s squeal was muffled by the couch, but he did obediently lift his head he could be examined. “Can’t afford it.”

“That’s not a thing to worry about right now.” Even though he knew it was.

“I want to go sleepy.”

“Not until I’ve cleaned you off and bandaged you up.”

He grabbed a bowl of water and a rag from the kitchen and delicately dabbed the dried blood and dirt. Chasten took in a sharp breath and grit his teeth when he got to a particularly nasty part that was already starting to turn a yellowish purple. Pete used the last of his butterfly bandages putting back together the skin above his eyebrow. “Time for some rest.”

He grabbed some pillows, including the one off his bed-- but he didn’t plan to go back to sleep tonight-- and a blanket. He set up some Tylenol and a glass of water on the coffee table. And then he watched over him from the recliner.

*****

It was well into the afternoon before Chasten stirred. Pete was still sitting across from him, grading papers, reluctant to have moved an inch.

“Where am I?” Chasten rubbed his forehead. “Ouch.”

“You’re with me. You’re safe.” 

He said it like he meant it, but a fair amount of guilt bubbled up inside him over his behavior the previous night. Chasten had come to him injured. And Pete’s response was to stick his tongue down his throat. He didn’t feel great about it.

“I think my head is going to crack open.”

Pete handed him the pills and water. “Drink up. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Chasten cried out when the cup touched his mouth. “That smarts. I almost forgot about the gay bashing. Do I have a black eye? Does it at least make me look tough?”

“I’m taking you to the police.”

“No.”

“You were attacked. It’s a hate crime.”

“I said no. It’s done.

“Chasten…”

“I can’t, okay! If I go to the police, they’ll make me go to the hospital for an evaluation. I’m still on my parents’ insurance plan. Not only do I not have a thousand dollars sitting around to pay the deductible, but my parents will get alerted. I’ll have to tell them what happened. My mom will take time off work, which she can’t afford to do, to come down and take care of me. Somewhere in my the back of my dad’s mind there will be some thought that this wouldn’t have happened to one of his straight sons. They love me. But this having-a-queer-child thing is still new to them. It’s changed our family dynamics and we’re all still adjusting. I need them not have to deal with this. And I need you to respect my boundaries.”

Pete didn’t know how to respond. There were few occasions where he felt this completely out of his depth. He knew what was righteous, but did he know what was right? He tried to put himself in Chasten’s place, letting his imagination run through the scenario of when he came out (more and more these days it was feeling like a “when” instead of an “if”). Would the close relationship he had with his parents, three decades in the making, come tumbling apart, only to have to be rebuilt one agonizing piece at a time? Was that a risk he was ready to take?

“The police would treat it like a domestic dispute, anyhow,” Chasten continued. “Visit your local women’s shelter if you’re curious how that story ends.”

“Why would they do that?”

Chasten took a deep breath. “Because the guy who attacked me was my boyfriend. It was such a great night to start. We were killing it on our pub crawl. The crowds at both were really getting into our impromptu Pride celebration. It turns out even Republicans like a good party. After last call, my friends went one way, and I went the other with he-who-shall-not-be-named. The mistake I made was kissing him out in the open where apparently a couple of his friends spotted us. He pretended I was some stranger, called me a faggot and then punched me in the face.

“We just moved in together. My idea, of course. What an asshole coward he turned out to be. And me such a fool.” His voice was shaky, like he might start crying and Pete wasn’t sure he could bare it.

“You are far from being a fool. Maybe you should rest some more.”

Chasten nodded and nestled down back into the blankets. “My memory gets fuzzy after the attack. I have no idea how I even got here last night. I didn’t do something obnoxious and loud and get you in trouble with your neighbors, did I?”

“No. You really don’t remember?”

Pete’s heart was racing. If Chasten wanted to talk about the kiss, he wasn’t sure what he could say. He wasn’t out, and he refused to shove Chasten’s joy and brightness into his musty closet. Chasten was recovering from an abusive relationship. He had been drunk. Pete had been needy. It was a minefield of potential hurt feelings and regrets. Nothing good could come out of having this conversation. Nothing at all.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever. “I blacked out,” Chasten said. “I don’t remember.”

*****

It was decided, without either of them discussing it, that Chasten would stay with him until he could secure better arrangements. As far as house guests went, he was a pretty welcome one. He knew when to give Pete space but was always up for watching a movie or playing a board game. He insisted on keeping the place clean as his contribution, and, sure, he did it while bopping around to music that made Pete’s teeth itch, but the kitchen sink now sparkled.

“I sorted through your language tapes this morning. I started teaching myself Farsi.”

“Really?” Pete tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice and failed miserably. He’d attempted for years in vain to get his friends interested in languages. “I could teach you. If you wanted. We could set aside an hour a week for immersion and...”

“Please stop before you plan my semester abroad in Iran.”

Well, he wasn’t _planning_ it, but it wouldn’t be a terrible opportunity.

“I’m kidding, Peter, obviously. I struggle enough with the first language. Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Tell you what. Why don’t you share a story about the invention of the steam engine? Or maybe there’s a particular chapter of _The Lord of the Rings_ that got you through the seventh grade you’d like to discuss.”

Pete actually did have a killer anecdote about trains, but he didn’t think Chasten deserved to hear it right then.

“Would you just make your move?”

They were playing a game of chess, which was becoming an exercise in frustration for him because Chasten refused to make the obvious moves. He could have Pete’s rook with his knight in one turn, but he didn’t take it. Pete even set up the play to see if Chasten would take the bait. Nothing he was doing made sense, and Pete wondered whether Chasten’s goal was to win or just drive him insane. Then when he finally took his turn he moved a pawn. _A pawn_. Pete was tempted to throw the board across the room.

The kettle whistled from the kitchen. It was late June and Michigan was in the midst of a heatwave-- a real one, not just by Mid-Western standards. It didn’t seem like the most prudent time to be running the gas and boiling water. Chasten returned from the kitchen with two steaming mugs topped with whipped cream spirals that would make a barista green with envy. Pete didn’t even know he owned whipped cream.

“What is this?” He eyed the candy coated liquid with suspicion.

“Hot chocolate. It’s good to drink hot things on a hot day. Helps cool you down.”

“That sounds like something a lunatic would say.” But he still drank it, calculating the extra time on his next morning run.

“One of my friends is losing his roommate at the end of the month, and I’m planning to move in.”

“I’ll help you pack.” He frowned at the chess board.

“I refuse to react to that, because I know you’re going to miss me. I would ask for your help getting my remaining things from my ex, but rumor has it he threw it all out on the lawn and set it on fire. And, I’m sorry, but if you’re trying to prove that you’re ‘not gay anymore,’ a huge, dramatic gesture probably isn’t the most convincing course of action. 

“Looking back on it, though, I see where I have ownership in the ugly way things ended. I knew he wasn’t comfortable being out, but I pushed, because that’s what I do. I thought we should move in together, he thought he might 'try women again.’ I was in love. He punched me in the face. We were pretty incompatible.”

Pete cringed. He hated when Chasten got like this. His self-deprecating humor was part of his charm, but there were times where it seemed to stem from a deep seated insecurity. He knew this was an instance of the latter, given the way Chasten was nursing his mug, refusing to make eye contact.

“Hey, look at me,” he said in a kind but firm tone. “You did nothing to deserve what that asshole did to you. You wear your heart on your sleeve and you’re enthusiastic about your relationships and you make everyone in your orbit feel special. A lot of people would kill for those qualities in a partner. I’ve never been in love, and I know nothing about love. But I do know that. For whatever it’s worth.”

Chasten looked stunned, and Pete immediately started playing back his monologue in his head to figure out what he let slip and how he could play it off as a joke.

“You’ve never been in love?”

_That’s_ what he took away from his speech?

“Erm, no. We don’t need to talk about it. I’m well aware that I’m pushing thirty and it’s getting more pathetic by the minute.”

Pete had been lucky enough to collect a group of close, loyal friends throughout his life-- adding new ones in each stage without losing many of the old ones. He loved his friends. But if he got one more text announcing an engagement, he was going to drown his fancy new smartphone in the toilet.

He didn’t have an expectation of how Chasten would react to his revelation of eternal lovelessness, but he certainly didn’t expect him to laugh.

“Oh my God, Peter. That’s such bullshit. Of course you’ve been in love. You’re still in love. With _South Bend_. Sure, you can’t marry it, but you could probably convince it to enter into a long term relationship of the four-to-eight year variety. It’s not love or romance in the traditional sense, but it’s enough, isn't it?”

The easy way Chasten saw the world sometimes. Pete really hated him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Chasten was grinning with glee.

“Shut up and finish your cocoa.”

*****

Chasten was a ball of excitement following his first week student teaching at a middle school in the Detroit suburbs. His commute from the college was long, the hours grueling and the work hard. But he loved it. He oozed his enthusiasm all over Pete’s office. His new corner office, thank you very much. One of the other adjuncts quit over summer, and when Pete saw the larger cubicle still unclaimed in September, he moved in his laptop and ficus.

“A couple of my friends are going to see the theater department’s rendition of _Cabaret_ this weekend,” Chasten said. “It apparently very mediocre, but I’m sneaking in Junior Mints. Come with us.”

“I’d love to,” Pete lied. He hated musicals. "Unfortunately I have a commitment." Luckily, he had a ready excuse in that it was one of his mandatory weekends with the Reserves. He told Chasten this and was met with an unexpected glare.

“This is for them.”

“What?”

Chasten dramatically waved his arms. “For them. The people of South Bend. Indiana. America. The goddamn world! Maybe the intergalactic universe depending on how the future goes.”

“I’m so lost.”

“I’m talking about your decision to join the military. You could be killed. I know I encouraged you to run for office again, but not at the expense of becoming cannon fodder for Uncle Sam.”

“I didn’t join the Reserves just to put it on my resume to win an election. When I was campaigning, I would meet so many families with sons and daughters in the armed forces, and they were almost always from the poorest neighborhoods. In the days of JFK and George H. W. Bush, the wealthy and educated were expected to serve alongside illiterate farm kids. The military was the great equalizer. But now nearly no one from elite schools goes into service and our national defense has become a pipeline from low income communities to the battlefield. I’m not comfortable with that. Are you?”

“Of course you’d model your life after JFK and Bush Sr. You want to be president one day, don’t you?”

Pete didn’t respond. Chasten’s posture slumped.

“You know, I wasn’t being fully serious. But fuck. You want to be president. Probably about thirty years from now, right? So that’s two or three terms as mayor, a stint as governor if you can swing it, definitely a stop over in congress if not the senate. Three decades of running for office in one of the most conservative states in the country.

“I believe you didn’t sign up just to become mayor. But that means it was at least a contributing factor. I guess what I’m wondering is what you’re willing to sacrifice for your ambition. Or rather what you’re _not_. I guess maybe I was naive about where you’d draw the line.”

Pete rolled his office chair next to Chasten, their shoulders touching. “I’m not being deployed anytime soon. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are winding down, and for all I know I’ll never be sent. But if it happens, chances are I’ll be safe. And if not, you can have my Roomba, because I know you’re obsessed with it.”

“I think you’re missing my point,” Chasen sighed. “But I’ll still take the Roobma.”

*****

Pete had put in his notice, but an invitation to the College President’s annual New Year’s Eve bash was an honor that demanded attention. Besides, he never knew when he was going to lose another election and need to hock classic literature to bored teenagers for survival. Best not to burn any bridges.

It was his last night in Michigan. His apartment was boxed up and the moving truck was already on its way to South Bend. He filed the paperwork a couple of weeks ago and his parents dusted off the yard sign from his last run and proudly stuck it in their yard.

It was official. Pete Buttigieg was running for the Democratic nomination in the 2011 South Bend mayoral race. This time it was his to lose.

A couple minutes before midnight, he spotted Chasten passing around a platter of crab puffs. 

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Pete said with what he was sure was a goofy smile plastered on his face. He didn’t think he would get the chance to see Chasten in person before he left.

“Took a catering job for the holiday season.” Chasten craned his neck toward a set of French doors that opened onto a back patio. “I’m busy right now, but I have a break in five. Meet me outside?”

Pete nodded. Busy. Always busy. All semester with his student teaching and extra tutoring he did with kids with learning disabilities and a campus job. He was proud of Chasten’s drive. But he missed him.

It was warmer than average for December, but the wind still bit at Pete’s ears. Chasten closed the doors behind him, drowning out the chorus of drunk party goers counting down the last moments of 2010.

“I’ve been avoiding you a little,” Chasten admitted. He wouldn’t look at Pete, instead staring at the night sky.

“I know.”

“I know South Bend is your destiny and all, but saying goodbye sucks.”

“So don’t say it.”

A muffled eruption of horns and cheering rang out behind them.

“Happy New Year Pete.”

“Happy New Year Chasten.”

They watched in silence as fireworks exploded in front of the stars.


	4. 2011

\- 2011 -

The volunteer coordinator on his campaign came down with the flu a week from the primary and now Pete was stuck with this guy. He tried to remember his name. Rick Something.

“You’ve got to put in some face time with the new crop of volunteers,” Maybe-Rick said. “Make them feel special. We’re going to be asking a lot of them.”

Pete followed Possibly-Rick down a narrow corridor. His name was painted on the cinder block walls in enormous letters. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.

“We’ve got the usual suspects on tap for today. A whole crop of empty nesters wearing mom jeans and fighting to set you up with their daughters. I totally call dibs on your rejects, by the way. If they’re hot. The local high school has decided volunteering on your campaign counts for an Honors Society credit, which has made you responsible for about a dozen new botchy-faced nerds and a stack of paperwork I stuck on your desk. We’re also getting an influx of newly unemployed college graduates desperate to get anything onto their resumes. Thank goodness for the recession, am I right?”

Pete wasn’t sure he cared for this Probably-Not-Rick guy very much. They entered into what his campaign called the Holding Pen, a large room where volunteers and interns would gather throughout the day. On the walls hung enlarged maps of every corner of South Bend. A couple of folding tables held up very large vats of coffee for round-the-clock caffeination and the reusable mugs his staffers were encouraged to bring in. When the campaign could swing it, or could get them donated, donuts and pastries were provided.

This morning, a bunch of young people in comfortable shoes gathered for small talk, no doubt waiting to be assigned to one of the maps on the wall for canvassing. Interns were already at the phone stations, asking— begging, really— for last minute donations to get them over the hump. His parents stood at the white board, coordinating something with his press secretary. Of course, his parents were his favorite volunteers, but they were popular with the entire staff, and, on the rare occasion they didn’t come to headquarters, Pete would be peppered with questions pertaining to their whereabouts.

“Come meet the newbys.” Definitely-Not-Rick waved him over to a corner, where his shiny new volunteers were attempting to get to know each other with all the grace of a middle school dance. One of them stood out from the others.

“Chasten.” Before he could stop himself, he’d pulled him into a hug. Very much a straight guy friendship hug, complete with copious amounts of backslapping. But he must have lingered too long, because it ended with someone in the crowd awkwardly clearing their throat. He noticed his mom staring at them from across the room.

He hadn’t seen Chasten in months, not since leaving for South Bend. He’d filled out a bit since then and stood straighter, more confident. He looked good. Really good. Pete wasn’t going to think about it.

“I got the graduation gift. Thank you.”

Pete sent him an arrangement of lilies. It involved pacing around the florist, wondering if it was kosher to send flowers to a guy friend, working up his nerve as increasingly amused shop employees watched him. But the thought of how happy they’d make Chasten quickly shut down his internal debate. It appeared he’d made the right choice.

“I can’t believe you came.”

“I’m here for the free t-shirt.” He tugged at the fabric at his chest to show off the “Pete for Mayor” logo blazen across it.

A tap on his shoulder altered him that he should move on. He bristled. For five months, he’d done whatever his campaign wanted or demanded of him, and he did it without question or complaint. He couldn’t have one extra minute to chat with a friend?

And just in time for it to be a matter of no importance to him, he remembered his substitute volunteer coordinator’s name was actually Doug.

Chasten, ever the observant one, seemed to sense the tension and stepped in to diffuse the situation.

“Hey, nice to meet you. It’s Doug, right?” Chasten held out his hand, which remained lamely suspended in mid-air, his gesture unreturned.

“It’s Rick, actually.”

Pete smiled. His day was looking up.

*****

It was unseasonably cold, and the wind turned his jacket into a cape as Pete struggled to make it to his car while keeping the huge pile of papers he was carrying intact. Because he was not going to be seen frantically running around downtown chasing papers five days before the election. He had flashbacks of the infamous John Kerry windsurfing ad. He could practically hear the voiceover in his head: _“Young Pete Buttigieg_ thinks _he’s ready to be the mayor of South Bend, but really he’s a political lightweight whose positions change with the wind.”_

He started up his car and was about to pull out into traffic when the passenger side door opened. “Your Mom assigned me to come with you,” Chasten said, jumping in and buckling his seat belt. “She told me to look for the ugliest green car on the block. She was not kidding. I overheard a couple of your staff call it ‘The Chick Magnet.’ Well, if that’s true, chalk it up to one more thing I don’t understand about women. Where are we headed?”

“I was headed to the teachers’ union. And unaware I needed a babysitter.”

“She said you would be resistant. Apparently, you’ve been struggling to get this endorsement and she thought you could use the moral support.”

“What are you doing talking to my mom?”

Chasten shrugged. “She wanted to know who I was. We got to chatting. She’s nice. Are you threatened by me getting to know your family?”

“Yes. Because somehow I know it’s going to end with the two of you ganging up on me about my suits.”

“There’s not enough time.” Chasten sighed. “I’m only here until Tuesday.”

“You’re staying through the election?”

“Yeah. I have a couple of days before I need to start my new responsible adult life in Chicago. Unless there’s a reason I shouldn’t?”

“No. Stay.” Pete said way too quickly. “I could use the extra set of hands. For the campaign.”

Chasten fought back a snicker.

“I really want to tell you to get out of my car but your door doesn’t open from the inside.”

They rode along in comfortable silence, passing boarded up relics from a different era, factories that used to build cars and appliances but where now only mice and pigeons stirred. They passed rows of two-story houses like the one he grew up in, those still occupied outnumbered by the ones overtaken with weeds and crumbling.

He turned onto MLK Boulevard. “I’m going to change the traffic flow of streets like this. Put in a bunch of roundabouts and create a real downtown.”

“Traffic circles? I hate those things.”

“Everyone does. That’s not the point. It’s going to allow for a genuine city center that’s going to attract pedestrians and then businesses. I have so many plans. I’m going to be heartbroken if I don’t win.” Pete gripped the steering wheel. “I’ve never admitted that out loud before.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I know you wouldn’t want it getting around that you have moments of earnest human emotion.”

“I would not.”

Pete pulled up in front of the administrative offices of the South Bend Community School Corporation with a sense of dread.

“Should we be going inside or something?” Chasten asked, staring out the window.

“Yes,” he said, not moving.

“Okay, I know you get grumpy when things are outside your control, but I promise this endorsement is yours. The union was reluctant to weigh in when the polls were close, and have held back in recent days out of respect for the passing of Hamann’s wife, but you’ve pulled in front of Dvorak. They want to be on the winning side of this race, but you have to give them the excuse.” 

Pete just stared at Chasten and blinked.

“I might be following the election more closely than I let on,” Chasten admitted. “I read _The Tribune_ sometimes. Daily.”

“You subscribe to _The Tribune_?”

“No, Grandpa, I read it online like a normal person.”

They finally made their way inside the building, entering a large conference room where the fundraiser was being held. The middle schools wanted each student to have a tablet, the special education department needed more assistants, the girls’ sports teams had half the equipment the boys did. And in an economically depressed city like South Bend, that meant teachers often got together and raised the money between themselves. Because who else would?

“This is what you were dreading? A pancake supper?” Chasten asked this with the dismissive air of a person who did not understand how seriously South Benders took breakfast sausage. “Are we allowed to have some of this bacon?”

He quickly verified that he was, in fact, allowed to partake in the spread and, after making his donation, set about piling his plate high with scrambled eggs and flapjacks. Pete did not donate lest it appear as if he were attempting to buy off a union with soccer balls. He sipped black coffee and rolled his eyes as Chasten swirled syrup over every inch of his plate.

“Dvorak is our guy,” a middle aged man with a pot belly and mustache spoke out. That Pete was sitting mere feet away gave him no pause. All other conversations in the room dimmed to a low murmur.

_Here we go._

“He’s a party guy. A union guy. A South Bend guy.”

Pete had largely mastered the art of holding his tongue when people got under his skin. It was part of what made him so well suited to a life in public service— that he could act respectful and professional in the face of serious verbal abuse. But for better or worse, he couldn’t let this comment go unchecked. 

“I’d like to think I’m a South Bend guy. I was born and raised here. Some of you in this room were my teachers, and I wouldn’t be here without you. That’s why I support increasing the budget for the city’s public schools and raising salaries for educators.”

The man waved off his words. “Your parents are Notre Dame transplants. That’s hardly being ‘from here.’ And find me one candidate that doesn’t come through here with talk of more funding and higher pay. No one ever delivers on it. But you people keep promising all the same.”

Pete glanced over at Chasten. He could use some of that moral support right about now. But Chasten’s focus was elsewhere. “I don’t see a good place to give a speech. No stage.”

“What?” Pete was confused and slightly annoyed.

“I guess I’ll have to make my own.”

Chasten abruptly stood up, commanded the attention of the crowd and introduced himself. Pete tugged on his sleeves to force him back down and was swatted away. He wasn’t going to feel bad when he left him to walk home.

“I’m starting as a teacher this fall in Chicago. Like many of you, I’ll be teaching at a low income school with all the challenges that brings. I’ll also be working on my masters. I was inspired to do all this by one of my professors in college. You know him as Pete Buttigieg, candidate for mayor, but to us students he was just Professor Pete. He tried to teach me literature. It didn’t stick. But what did stay with me was a love of sharing knowledge and the difference teachers can make in young lives. Pete saw the potential in students others had written off. He made everyone feel noticed, seen. He saw the potential in people and believed in what they could accomplish, and that made me want to be the better man he thought I was. He never judged, and he always helped. No matter how uncomfortable or raw the situations his students found themselves in— he was there. I think if he does half for the kids of South Bend what he’s been able to do for me and countless others— well, I think you’d be really lucky to have him.”

Later, on the way back to the car, Pete grabbed Chasten’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you,” he said. “For giving them an excuse.” He’d gotten the endorsement. The announcement would run in the paper the next morning.

“That was all you, Peter. I merely put who you are into words. It’s you they responded to. Don’t forget that.”

Pete stared at him and realized Chasten had no idea the magic he possessed. No clue at all. There was a selfish part of him that wanted to bottle it up and hug it close, keeping Chasten all to himself. But he knew magic like that didn’t belong to him.

*****

It was Election Day, and, for the first time in months, Pete had nothing on his schedule. He voted. He checked in with the volunteers. Once and then five more times. He arranged all of the papers on his desk. Then all of the papers on every other desk, which went strangely unappreciated. He played a round of Words with Friends with his roommate from sophomore year.

“Take him.” One of his staffers said to Chasten.

Word of Chasten’s impassioned speech had gotten around. He quickly became a sort of hero in the campaign, and Pete’s time in Michigan grew in mythology until it was basically the _Dead Poet’s Society._

“Take him where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here. And for the love of God, keep him away from polling stations. He’s driving everyone nuts.”

“I am not,” Pete said, feeling like a toddler the adults were talking over.

“You definitely are.”

“I had to double my dose of Xanax.”

He wondered if it was too late to fire his entire staff.

Alas, he submitted to being Pete-sat for the afternoon. He took Chasten to one of his favorite diners for lunch. They tossed around a football in the park— Chasten had a surprisingly good spiral— and went to a movie. After dinner, he brought him back to his house to await the results.

“This is your house?” Chasten squinted. “Are you sure?”

Admittedly, Pete’s house didn’t look it’s very best in the evening hours. The streetlights combined with that night’s full moon to create harsh shadows that showcased every bit of rot, and made his front flower beds resemble an untamed jungle where unsuspecting children might get ensnared. It didn’t help that he’d had little time to work on the place since he’d bought it.

“I will leave you out here.”

“Empty threats, Peter. Always empty threats.”

He led Chasten up to a second floor balcony that overlooked the river. It was a place he came to when he was anxious, or needed to think. They squeezed their two bodies into a space better utilized by one, knees knocking together and hands accidentally brushing one another until they solved the puzzle.

Pete watched Chasten watching the water. He decided he was going to come out to at least one close friend before— if— he took the oath of office. He wanted to keep himself accountable. He wanted to be honest about who he was. He wanted someone to not be shocked when the inevitable gay sex scandal ruined his career in a few years’ time. But, more than anything, he wanted a chance to have a real life. With someone. And it all started with three simple but insurmountable words.

It seemed obvious to come out to Chasten. After all, he’d clearly figured it out. He wasn’t sure when, but it was probably earlier than he could speculate. And Chasten was more than a close friend; somewhere along the way he’d become his best friend.

Tell him. Say it. He knows. Just form the words.

But he couldn’t. Honesty with Chasten meant opening the door that was always between them, and a nagging feeling told him neither one of them was ready to walk through it. There were times, before, when he thought Chasten might want to. But now? He read a hesitance there. 

It only made Pete feel proud. It meant Chasten was moving on and putting his future, and himself, first. It also meant one day he would have to let go. But not tonight.

His phone rang. He took the call and then it rang again.

“Dvorak and Hamann,” he explained. “They’ve conceded.”

Chasten checked his phone. “The Tribune is calling your victory. They’re dubbing you ‘The Comeback Kid.’”

Pete smiled. “It’s a nod to Bill Clinton’s 1992 primary run. You know, Paul Tsongas…”

“Stop.”

“Right.”

Chasten stood, brushing off his knees. “You should change into a nicer shirt. And I have a road to hit before it gets any later.”

“You’re going all the way to Chicago tonight? That’s ridiculous. You were a part of the campaign. You should stay, at least for the speech. I want to thank you by name.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Peter. That’s not how we work.”

His phone began to ring. He mouthed _hold on_ to Chasten and turned to take the call.

He wasn’t surprised to see he was gone when he turned back. He spotted him on the sidewalk below, walking away. All he had to do was go after him. All Chasten had to do was turn around.

The phone rang again. Pete picked it up.

*****

Pete got home on what should have been November 8th but was the 9th because it had taken hours to escape the manic celebration of his campaign staff. Not that he was opposed to the party, as the quart of liquor swirling around in his stomach would testify, but right now he needed some solitude in the comfort of his own home to recharge his batteries. Tomorrow, it started.

Waiting for him on his porch was a wooden crate. Inside was a bottle of Lagavulin scotch and a note.

_Congratulations, Mayor Pete! Always, Chasten._

He smiled at the bottle and then put it away on a shelf. There would be time for that later. Right now there was work to do.


	5. 2012

\- 2102 -

The call was strange from the start. Pete was at his desk, enjoying a rare lull in his day, when his personal phone lit up with the name Daniel, a friend from high school. He rushed to answer it.

“Hey, Peter,” Daniel said. His voice sounded distant and slightly garbled. “Jen is here with me.”

So he was on speaker. Couples. The way they operated confounded him. What ever happened to talking to one person at a time?

“We’re coming back into town this weekend, and we were wondering if the Mayor would grace us with the honor of his presence.”

“Well, I don’t know about that asshole, but I’m available,” Pete said. He could use an evening with friends. He was almost a year on the job. He loved it. But it would suck every last breath of life out of him if he let it.

“Good. It’s been too long, man. How about Saturday night? I heard the health department finally cleared your place for human inhabitation. So we’ll stop by around six o’clock?”

The one time your front porch caves in, revealing a massive termite infestation...

Then he remembered. “I can’t. One of my former students, Chasten, is driving through on his way to Elkhart, and I promised him dinner.”

“Oh, Chaaasten,” Jen squealed. “We’d love to meet Chaaasten. How about we all get together?”

Pete removed his phone from his ear and gave it a quizzical stare. Why was she saying his name like that? He wasn’t aware she even knew who he was.

Daniel coughed, like perhaps an elbow just made contact with his ribs. “Absolutely. We are both dying to get to know this guy you keep raving about.”

Raving? Now that he was thinking about it he _might_ have mentioned Chasten in passing. Once or twice. Really almost never.

“Peter, we’ve lived in Florida for the last decade,” Jen said. “It’s going to be thirty degrees in South Bend this weekend. We’d love nothing more than to sit in front of a fire, order some take out, and get drunk playing one of those ridiculous board games you take way too seriously. Daniel won’t say anything embarrassing in front of Chasten. He promises.”

The date seemed set, and there didn’t seem to be anything Pete could say to dissuade them.

He really didn’t understand people sometimes.

*****

The wide grin on his face when he opened the door to Chasten was immediately erased when he saw the young man standing next to him.

“Peter, this is Trevor.”

He took Trevor’s coat and ushered him into the living room, which was set up for three guests and not four. Chasten hung back.

“You should have told me you were going to bring someone,” Pete whispered.

“I did.”

“No, you said you were going to bring some_thing_. I was expecting a twelve layer dip.”

“That’s way too many layers. I definitely told you, Peter. But you were probably distracted and heard what you wanted.”

While it was true Pete had been pouring over that month’s crime reports at the time Chasten proposed his visit, he was pretty sure he would have remembered a detail of this significance.

“Just be nice,” Chasten said before joining Trevor on the couch.

Pete scoffed. When was he not nice?

So when Daniel and Jen arrived, he was nice enough to introduce them to Trevor, whom he accidentally called Todd, and then he nicely apologized for the mistake. He nicely handed Trevor a napkin when a bit of queso dip landed on his shirt, which he nicely suggested might be ruined. He let him have the first turn in the game, to be nice, and then nicely watched him like a hawk to make sure he was following all the rules. When Trevor reached for another beer, he nicely reminded him of the legal driving limit in Indiana. 

His cheeks positively ached from all the niceness.

Pete’s other friends appeared similarly thrown by the existence of Chasten’s plus one.

“You’re Chasten’s boyfriend,” Daniel repeated to Trevor in a flat tone. It was the third time he’d said it, dissatisfied with the previous answers to the affirmative. “You.”

“Pete, can I see you in the kitchen?” Chasten asked. It wasn’t really a question.

The kitchen door swung closed behind them, and Pete tried to formulate an apology. But what could he say? _Sorry, but I hate your boyfriend for no good reason at all?_

“How is your smart sewers initiative going? Did you get enough councilmen on board?”

“You dragged me in here to talk about waste water?”

Chasten shrugged. “You made a pretty impassioned case for it last time we spoke. That was a couple of weeks ago, and I thought I’d get an update. We can talk about something else if you want. Or nothing. I just wanted a few moments away from the group, alone.”

However, they were not alone and Pete didn’t know if they ever would be again. Those times where they talked in his office for hours or binge watched bad television on his couch felt like a lifetime ago. Going forward, there would always be something between them: a city, the United States Navy, an election, a hundred miles, someone.

“It’s weird,” Chasten said. “I don’t see you enough, but at the same time it’s almost too much. You know what I mean?”

Pete did.

“You’re not going to lecture me about being nice to Trevor?”

“I’ve given up any hope that you’re going to be nice to Trevor. You were acting deranged out there. You don’t have to like him. It’s okay. I don’t like everyone my friends date.”

“I want to like him.” He realized he meant it. If this friendship had a future, he was going to have to get used to Chasten bringing around boyfriends and maybe one day a serious partner. Because he was designed for a life full of love and family, and Pete would be selfish to stand in the way.

“That’s a nice thought,” Chasten responded with a soft smile. “We should probably get back to the party before someone gets the very regrettable idea to try some of your guacamole.”

“What’s wrong with my guacamole?”

“Oh, Peter.”

*****

After everyone had left, Pete bundled up and went outside to put the trash on the curb. Familiar voices wafted over the fence that blocked off the alley.

“Well, that was a clusterfuck.” Jen’s voice rang out. “I was so sure.”

“So your imaginary gaydar is on the fritz. Does it really matter? Maybe he’s happy to be alone. Let it go.”

“You think he’s asexual?”

“I think it’s none of our business. When he has something to tell us, or someone to introduce us to, we’ll be there. Until then, I’m done speculating. It feels wrong. Fuck, it’s cold. Where’s our ride?”

Pete supposed he should feel anger that his friends were gossiping about him and about something as personal as his sexuality. But, instead, he was relieved. People who loved him thought he was gay... and they were supportive. More than that, they wanted to see him settled with a boyfriend. They wanted him to be happy. There was a timer on his life in the closet and he could hear it start to tick down.


	6. 2013

\- 2013 -

The gathering waned until, minutes before midnight, it was only Chasten remaining. There was an unsettled, nervous energy between them Pete didn’t understand and the air was thick of it. He tried to ignore it, mindlessly tidying up wayward plastic cups and putting the leftover chips back into the bag even though he wouldn’t be home to eat them. Chasten sat on the couch, silently watching him.

Any nerves he felt about shipping out to Afghanistan was dwarfed by the intensity of being under Chasten’s gaze. He worried he might combust before he got anywhere near an IED.

“Can you believe that banner?” Pete asked helplessly. On the wall above his piano were the words: Bon Voyage. In glitter. He was being deployed, not going on a cruise.

“I’m sure whoever put that up only had good intentions,” Chasten said with a slight edge. “If you didn’t want a party you could have said so.”

Pete hadn’t wanted one. But he’d come to realize over the past couple of weeks that other people needed him to want one. No one dared speak it, but it was an opportunity for friends and acquaintances to offer what might wind up being a last goodbye. Only his parents would be seeing him off at the airport in the morning.

“There’s a letter,” Pete said. “For my parents. In the top drawer of my desk upstairs.”

Drafting that letter was surreal in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Assuring his parents that his life, while cut short, had been a good one. That in almost thirty-two years he’d managed to accomplish more than he’d ever thought possible back when he used to hide out in their basement and pretend to be Jimmi Hendrix. That he loved them, admired them, and couldn’t have wished for better.

When he set down the pen, he realized it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. Because part of him was empty, and if he died, it would die alongside him. He would never experience the ups and downs of dating. He would never fall in love. His parents would never know him as he fully was. The Pete Buttigieg with a committed partner, maybe raising children, would only exist in an alternate universe.

“They should find it. But if they don’t…”

That softened Chasten a bit. “I’ll make sure. If I need to.”

Pete nodded his gratitude.

Then there was a second letter that never made it to paper. The apology for not getting his life together in time for it to have mattered. A regret of cowardice. An imagining of a life that could have been had fate awarded him differently. A line in admiration for a certain pair of dark green corduroy pants…

He inspected the top of his baby grand for watermarks. “I can’t believe how many people came, with Christmas in two days.”

“People really seem to love you,” Chasten said. “Sometimes despite your very best efforts.”

Clearly it was time for Chasten to go home. 

Pete glanced at the clock on his fireplace mantel. It read 12:01. It was officially the day he was leaving his job and his home behind to serve out his nine-month deployment. Eight hours. He had less than eight hours.

“I should probably be getting to bed…”

“So I guess we’re just never going to talk about it,” Chasten said, sounding dejected. “You know, I didn’t think it was possible to keep things buried this deep. You’re going into war, Peter. For fuck’s sake! I could walk out that door right now and I might _never_ see you again. I don’t know whether to be impressed with your resolve or really fucking annoyed.”

It was obvious to Pete that Chasten had chosen “really fucking annoyed” but didn’t think it would help to point that out. So he said nothing.

“You’re not curious to know the details of this great, mysterious unspoken thing between us? If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I have lots of things to say.

“How about the fact that you’re gay? And how I know you’re gay. And how you know I know you’re gay. And how somehow no one else in this room tonight knows you’re gay, which, honestly is incredible because you’re not that good at hiding it. Somewhere on a space station there’s a Russian wondering why no one else noticed you checking out my ass at least five times tonight because he could see it from outer space!”

The pitch of Chasten’s voice was high and shaky but then grew eerily calm. “Or we could talk about how we’ve spent over three years pretending we didn’t kiss. Would you like to have that conversation?”

Pete swallowed, hard. He wasn’t especially surprised that Chasten remembered the kiss, despite previously having pretended not to. If anything, he was relieved he didn’t have to shoulder the memory alone anymore. But he couldn’t confront it, not right now. A part of him held Chasten in contempt for forcing the issue. Of all the times on all the days. But there was something heartbreaking in Chasten’s eyes that calmed his internal rampage, and told him it was time to listen. He’d seen that look before.

*****

_The phone rang at one in the morning. His brain, still asleep, interpreted the noise to mean the worst had happened: a terrorist had bombed the great (and somehow still operational) Studebaker factory._

_“Are the cars okay?” Pete mumbled into his phone._

_“Shit. I woke you. Of course, I woke you, because it’s the middle of the night. Go back to bed, Peter. I’m sorry.”_

_“Chasten? Don’t hang up. Tell me what’s wrong.”_

_A muffled sniffle came over the line. “My mom. She’s sick. I’m not sure how sick because she’s working so hard to be strong for my dad and my brothers, and she doesn’t want to ‘burden’ us. But she’s not a burden and I’m—- I’m scared. We don’t know if this new chemo cream is going to work, and…”_

_Pete scrolled through his agenda. A ribbon cutting on a new preschool for the HeadStart program first thing in the morning. He could push that onto a couple favorable council members. However, his meeting with newly sworn-in Governor Pence that afternoon couldn’t be missed, no matter how much he might want to. It would be tight, and exhausting, but doable._

_He showed up on Chasten’s doorstep an hour and a half later with a bottle of scotch and a pint of Cherry Jarcia. _

_“If you ever come here in the middle of the night again, I’ll throttle you,” Chasten said as he broke their hug, lifting the ice cream from Pete’s hands and inviting him into his studio apartment. “Seriously, Peter, taking off in that piece of tin you call a car while half asleep—- you could have wound up in a ditch.”_

_Pete knew what Chasten was doing. He didn’t feel like he could save his mother from real cancer so he’d transferred his attentions to saving Pete from imaginary threats on the night road. Still, he allowed himself to feel touched at his concern._

_He shrugged. “You needed a friend.”_

_Chasten chuckled mirthlessly as he opened one of the drawers in his kitchenette, which was really a microwave on top of a mini fridge, and grabbed a pair of spoons. “I have a ton of friends. A whole phone of full of friends. I cycled through that list a hundred times, thinking of who I could call, but no matter whose name my thumb landed on, I knew I couldn’t count on them. My call would be a disturbance, an unwelcome interruption on a club night. What does that say about my ‘friends?’ And what does it say about me?”_

_“It says you need to update your contacts. And stop hogging all of the emotional support ice cream.” Pete nudged the container away from Chasten._

_“I can’t lose her,” Chasten said, and look on his face broke Pete._

_He grabbed Chasten’s forearm and squeezed. “I don’t think you will. But no matter what, you can always call me. You’re never unwelcome.”_

*****

“Do you have any idea how it feels to work up the courage to kiss someone, have them kiss you back and then have to pretend it never happened? That next morning, you acted like a caged animal, and I was your trapper. You looked scared and ashamed, and I did that to you. Can you imagine how terrible that feels? It was easier to pretend, to sweep everything under the rug so we could continue on as friends. And that’s what I did.

“I’m aware I have no right. And I’m not asking you to come out. That decision belongs to you alone and always will. But I can’t continue on with this never ending game of pretend. There are things I need you to be honest about, at least with me.”

“You were drunk and hurting,” Pete offered up his defense. “I wasn’t sure you meant to do it. I thought I might have taken advantage of you.”

Chasten stepped toward Pete. They were standing three feet apart, looking each other dead in the eye. “This is very important, Peter. I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to tell me the truth. Think you can do that?”

He nodded, slightly unsure.

“Do you honestly believe you took advantage of me? Or are you using that as an excuse to avoid dealing with the fact that you kissed a man.”

Pete drew in a deep breath. “Mostly the second.”

“Wow. An honest answer. Here I was starting to have doubts.”

*****

_Now it was Pete’s turn to call unexpectedly in the night, although perhaps not as late. _

_“I think I fucked up.”_

_Out came a story about a police chief he’d fired in haste, an FBI investigation, and a set of voice recordings he’d never heard but was being held accountable for all the same. Allegations that a couple of donors had played him like a fool, and he wasn’t certain they hadn’t. His city was fractured. There were whispers of incompetence and worse._

_“What does your gut say about the tapes?” Chasten asked the next evening, pulling his naan into small chunks before dipping it in the remains of his tikka masala. He and Pete had met at an Indian restaurant halfway between their respective cities._

_“I would go to jail if I listened to them,” Pete responded almost robotically, pushing away his rice._

_“That’s not what I asked. I’m interested in your instincts. Do you believe there are racist comments on those tapes? Do you think your city’s force has a bias problem?”_

_“I can’t answer that.”_

_“Can’t or won’t?”_

_Pete let his silence be his answer. Chasten leaned back in his side of the booth._

_“Sometimes I forget you’re a politician. I guess I can’t always expect a straightforward answer.”_

_“I’d like to think I’m my authentic self most of the time. But there’s always going to be a small percentage of me I can’t share. That’s one of the reasons I marvel at other mayors who have spouses, families. How do you sustain a relationship when you can’t give your whole self to someone?”_

_Pete stared into his lap. A couple months ago, he’d turned thirty-one, and for some reason it was hitting him harder than thirty. It was the difference between hitting a barrier and crossing it. Now that he was decidedly on the other side, his sense of loneliness grew more acute. And sitting across from Chasten, on what could appear to the casual observer to be a dinner date, was not helping._

_Chasten reached across the table and hooked his finger under Pete’s chin and tilted his face to meet his eyes. “Hey. Where is this coming from? It sounds like you have more on your mind than illegal wiretapping.”_

_“It’s nothing. I’m just stressed and rambling.”_

_“That answer strikes me as being another politician’s special,” Chasten said. “But you’re not going to wind up alone because you put your job and city first sometimes. You just have to find the person who realizes having 98% of you is better than not having you at all.”_

*****

“The real problem for me was the man I kissed was you.”

Chasten audibly exhaled through his nose like a bull. “Well, thank you for clarifying that point. That was special to hear.”

Chasten made a move to escape the room and Pete panicked, rushing to outflank him. “I’m not explaining this well. You deserve better than to kiss some guy who compartmentalizes the moment and locks it away. You deserve something real. I handled the situation like a coward, and it shames me. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt, but I did.”

“It’s okay, Peter,” Chasten’s postured slumped and his voice sounded more like himself than he had all night. “I know I have terrible, dramatic timing. I sprung this conversation on you before you were ready, and, fuck, you’re deploying in a matter of hours. God, I suck. You should probably get some rest.”

“I can’t get on that plane tomorrow knowing you’re upset.”

“I’m not. Really. We’re friends. We get frustrated with each other, and then we forgive each other.”

“Chasten, I never understand what we are. I’m always two steps behind you, hoping I can catch up.”

*****

_“Man down. Ignore your training. Leave me behind.” Chasten flopped down onto the soft morning grass._

_Pete rolled his eyes. “Training for a half marathon was your idea.”_

_Chasten insisted a couple months earlier that he’d acquired a spare tire he needed to shift. Pete hadn’t agreed with that assessment, but training with Chasten was a good way to keep up his fitness regime for the Reserves, and he didn’t hate the idea of having a shared interest. Plus, he made a pretty sweet spreadsheet tracking their miles. Apart from Chasten’s overaction to one measly 5am wake up call, the program was going well._

_They ran. Chasten pretended to have blisters to get out of running. Pete motivated him out of his funks. They talked about work and movies and music and nothing serious. They had an excuse to keep in contact, calling and texting to inform one another of their successes and setbacks. Once every few weeks, they would get together for a buddy run. It was exactly what Pete thought they needed._

_“And I have a lot of bad ideas. Do you know what happened to the original marathon guy? He died, Peter.”_

_“Well he ran twenty-five miles and was probably not a real person. You ran two miles, stopped three times to pet dogs and once to read the menu posted in the window of the Hoosier Dim Sum House, and are now thirty yards from my house. I anticipate your survival chances to be good.”_

_Chasten stretched out his arm. “I don’t think I can make it.”_

_Pete knelt down and extended a hand. “I need you to stop being you for a moment. Get up and I’ll make you breakfast. I have a new green smoothie recipe I want to try. I bought a bunch of kale from the farmer’s market.”_

_Chasten accepted Pete’s hand but with a devilish grin pulled him down to the ground. Whether by design or accident, Pete wound up half on top of him, their hands still linked together. Time slowed down and he became aware of everything around him. The dew on the cut grass, the fragrance of Chasten’s detergent mixed with sweat, the sound of street cleaners sweeping the next alley over. They were laying on one of his neighbors’ yards, and he really should extract himself from Chasten’s right side. But the angle of the morning sun was making Chasten’s hair look all golden and shiny and that pair of bright blue eyes was studying him and he looked just fucking adorable and he needed the mesh of his running shorts to be much thicker right now and..._

_Chasten started shrieking. It took Pete a moment to process what was happening._

_“What the?” He swatted at the water drops like flies. Apparently his neighbor had sprinklers._

_“Run!” Chasten sprinted toward Pete’s house. Pete chased after him, admiring his form. For purely scientific reasons, he was going to make a note of that on the spreadsheet._

_An elderly man in a bathrobe shot out onto his front porch. “That’s what you kids deserve for trespassing. You won’t get away with this. I know the Mayor!”_

*****

Pete closed the distance between them, and pulled Chasten into a tight hug. He rested his head on Chasten’s shoulder and consumed his scent. There wasn’t an inch between their bodies, ensured by Pete’s firm grip. He held on for dear life and murmured into Chasten’s sweater.

“Forgive me. For any pain I caused. For any way I made you doubt yourself.”

Chasten sniffled and Pete gave him the dignity of pretending not to notice.

“You have to tell me what you want,” Pete said in a near whisper. 

“I’m going to miss you. So much.”

“It’ll be difficult for me as well.” Pete stroked the back of Chasten’s neck. “What do you want, Chasten? Please tell me.”

“I… I don’t want to have to make the first move again.”

That was all Pete needed to hear.

He kissed the shoulder his chin had been resting on. Then he shifted their bodies ever so slightly to kiss Chasten’s ear… his temple… his cheek… and then his lips, mouths closed at first and then open a bit but still sweet and controlled. He ran his fingers down Chasten’s sides, gripping the dark green material of his corduroys.

“Your pants are terrible,” he said softly. “I hate them.”

Chasten chuckled. “Trust me, I’m well aware of how you feel about these pants. I swear, they serve no other purpose beyond getting you to stare at me. I don’t even like green.”

Pete dove back into the kiss, this time letting his fingers wander to the small of Chasten’s back and then dangerously roaming downwards. Chasten pecked at Pete’s jawline before settling into the crook of his neck. Pete craned his head back and stared at the watermark on his ceiling in a trance. It barely registered that Chasten had unbuttoned the top of his polo and was tracing the outline of his collarbone with his lips.

He came back down the earth when he heard the click of his belt. He placed his hands on top of Chasten’s, pausing the efforts to untuck his shirt.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” Chasten admitted. “But I’m just so tired of fighting it. Aren’t you tired?”

“Bone weary.”

Now it was Chasten’s turn to initiate the kiss, and he did so with a passion that left Pete breathless. He backed them up until Pete softly collided with the wall. Pete yelped in surprise, which only encouraged Chasten to plunge deeper. Pete started to feel dizzy, and the pressure coming from where their hips were joined was leaving no doubt about what Chasten wanted and what he wanted, too.

He broke away to catch his breath and swept Chasten’s now-unruly widow's peak back into its proper place.

“Let me take you to my bed.”

Chasten groaned. “God, how are you not a character in a 1940s film?” But he was smiling.

He grabbed Pete’s hand and, after a gentle squeeze, guided him up the stairs.


	7. 2014

\- 2014 -

_“I can’t promise you anything,” Pete said. “I feel like I should have more to offer you.”_

_They stood at the edge of Pete’s bed. Somewhere on the journey upstairs, his shirt got lost, and Chasten was tracing the outlines of his biceps with his fingers. Chasten’s sweater had followed it but the plaid shirt underneath remained stubbornly fixed. Pete had tried his best, but there were just so many buttons._

_“I can’t promise you anything, either. I have no idea what my life is going to look like months from now. So let’s think of things differently. You trust me, yes? You feel comfortable with me?”_

_“Of course,” Pete said, earning him a quick kiss._

_“Then there’s something to be said for enjoying a human moment with a friend you like and trust and are attracted to. Wouldn’t you agree?”_

_Chasten licked the base of his neck and Pete thought he might pass out. _

_“Fuck,” he murmured._

_“Now that’s the spirit.”_

_Pete fell backwards onto the bed, backing up so that he was slightly propped up by the headboard. Chasten crawled up the length of him and gently straddled his hips. He took Pete’s hand in his and lifted his arm over his head._

_It was in that moment— their foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, one body covering another— Pete felt so safe, so revered, so at peace. It was like coming home. _

_“You’re thinking too hard.” Chasten kissed the skin above his heart._

_“It’s a lot to take in.”_

_A pause. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”_

_He cupped Chasten’s cheek with his free hand, to reassure him that was not the case._

_“I was just thinking about how glad I am that it’s you,” he said. There was a context there he knew Chasten would understand, because somehow Chasten understood everything. “Also, I think I might be gay.”_

_Chasten whispered into his ear, “I’m going to make you so happy, Peter Buttigieg.”_

Pete stared at the ceiling of the barracks. He should have fallen asleep hours ago, but the memory looped through his mind like a film. For months, he saw it projected in front of him whenever he had a free moment. He saw it on the dusty earth of the exercise yard, on the suspicious looking tray at chow. What had come next was, of course, incredible, but it wasn’t the memory of the sex keeping him up at night.

He bolted upright in his cot. He’d figured it out. 

He was in love.

*****

The media took Pete by surprise. It shouldn’t have. For years, having cameras and microphones shoved at his face were merely a fact of life. But as he walked through the sliding glass doors to greet his well-wishers at the South Bend Regional Airport, he discovered there were a lot of things about being mayor that had slipped away from him during his deployment.

The blast of lights assaulting his eyes. The low buzz that traveled alongside a chattering press core. The way people clapped when he entered a room, cheered for him, even though he was just a man doing his job. How he couldn’t take more than a step without someone stopping him to congratulate his return, or ask him a question, and he was expected to satisfy every demand.

He took selfies with supporters. He shook hands with everyone who wanted to thank him for his service, even though that phrase had always felt awkward to him. He allowed a councilman who’d blocked him on every major initiative have his photo op— if only to prove that war hadn’t changed him, that he was trained to kill but he wasn’t a _monster_. By the time he got to a resident who only wanted to know if he had a plan to lower property taxes, he wanted to laugh in relief.

Lieutenant Buttigieg, Navy intelligence officer, was melting from his consciousness and he was transforming back into Mayor Pete once more.

He felt a tap on his back. He stiffened but not perceptively. Civilians did not jump out of their skin when their mothers touched them. And it would be bad if the public were to see him do that.

He was a civilian; he was in control; he could do this.

He could probably relax a little more, though, if he could find the one face he wanted to see most.

“He’s not here,” his mom said. “You keep scanning the crowd.”

Pete refused to concede he was doing any such thing.

“He left a message on the machine.” His parents: the last people on earth to still use an answering machine, complete with cassette tape. “He didn’t give a reason, but it is very late. You understand.”

Sure, he understood. His plane was the last to come into the airport for the night, and who would be available to greet him home at this hour? Except, you know, _all these other people._

“It’s a shame. I’d grown quite fond of your young friend.”

His mom had taken to referring to Chasten as his “young friend,” and Pete had mixed feelings about the conspiratorial lilt her voice took when she said it. But this time he’d barely heard her. Pulsing through his mind was one single refrain on repeat: where the hell was Chasten?

But duty called. He plastered on a smile for the next person who wanted a piece of him and ignored the crushing ache in his chest.

*****

Pete arrived at the coffee shop fifteen minutes early. Chasten, who had probably never been fifteen minutes early for anything in his life, was predictably not there. But when Pete saw the sign for the pet adoption event in the park across the street, he had an idea of where he could find him.

Pete observed him a few moments before approaching. Chasten appeared captivated by a circus of puppies bouncing around in their pen. He looked as if he’d lost weight, too much of it as far as Pete was concerned. It was a mild September afternoon, but he was bundled in a sweatshirt in addition to his typical skinny jeans and loafers. The alarm bells were going off in Pete’s head before he got close enough to notice the shadows under his eyes.

“I’m thinking of taking all of these puppies home with me. What do you think?” Chasten said without taking his eyes off the furry wrecking balls.

“Having seen your apartment, I’d say the fur-to-square-foot ratio is less than optimal.”

“You really are home.” 

He turned to Pete like he might gather him into one of those deliriously comforting hugs of his. But he didn’t.

“You’re mad,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I’m confused,” Pete countered.

“I know. But we’ll talk. And I hope you’ll understand.”

Talk at a preselected safe, public location. Which Chasten had insisted upon. Like one would require for a business deal or for a first date with someone who might be a secret axe murderer.

Or for a break up. Oh, God, is that what this was? Of course Pete would manage to have a break up before managing to have a real relationship first. If Chasten tried to give him back his Harvard t-shirt he was going to vomit all over his shoes.

Then he heard an explosion. It sounded like it was off in the distance, but right before his vision went black he had a thought that he might have imagined it. The world started to close in on him. His knees began to buckle, and he felt himself slipping. Chasten grabbed him and propped him up, rubbing his back until his breathing slowed and the moment passed.

“Do you think you can walk?” Chasten asked softly.

Pete nodded. Or thought he nodded.

He felt a bit like a newborn calf, walking a few steps on shaky, unfamiliar legs, Chasten’s arm protectively wrapped around him. Curious onlookers were staring at them. A little girl, no older than three, stood behind her father’s legs, peeking through them. She was scared. Pete’s cheeks burned with humiliation.

“Let’s get out of here,” Chasten said.

“The coffee shop,” he responded numbly. “You promised we’d talk.”

“Change of plans. There’s coffee at my place.”

In short order, Pete found himself shoved onto Chasten’s futon, swaddled in a blanket, and cradling a mug. A worried looking Chasten observed him from across the room, biting his lower lip.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Pete said. “I know what you hear in the news about returning vets from Iraq and Afghanistan. Admittedly what happened back in the park was not great optics, but I’m fine. I wasn’t in combat, and it wasn’t a flashback. I think I’m dealing with some unresolved suvivors’ guilt, but I’m learning to cope.”

Chasten studied him. 

“I’m fine. Really,” he insisted.

“Okay, I won’t worry. For now.”

Pete stared him up and down. “Maybe I’m the one who should be concerned?”

“I’m working through some things of my own.”

“About me?”

“Yes. And no.” There was silence for a few beats. “We don’t have to do this right now. It can wait. After you’ve had more time to adjust to being back home.”

“Don’t do that,” Pete said. “Don’t treat me like I might break. You’re pulling away from me, and I want to know why.”

It wasn’t the first time. Over the years, it had become a pattern where Chasten would retreat whenever things between them got complicated, but that wasn’t supposed to happen this time. Truths had been told; feelings acted upon. He’d opened himself up for Chasten in a way he never had for another person. He assumed, at the very least, that when he came home he’d be returning to his friend. But he realized maybe he’d been making assumptions. Maybe it didn’t work like that.

“Do you regret it?” He asked, feeling desperately insecure.

Chasten shook his head. “Never.”

“Is it… Did you meet someone?”

The morning Pete left, he and Chasten had an understanding that one night didn’t bind them. Life would continue for them, on their separate paths, as it would have regardless. And, while they didn’t touch on it specifically, this meant Chasten was free to pursue a romantic life.

Still, Chasten stared at him as if he’d asked the dumbest question in recorded history. “Of course not.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Chasten shrugged. “You’re just finally figuring out what every guy who has come before you already realized. That I’m not perfect. In fact, I’m pretty fucked up.”

Pete had not ever thought Chasten was perfect. Well, maybe he had put him on a bit of a pedestal. Chasten was absolutely fearless about being who he was, and Pete admired that. But he wasn’t blind to Chasten’s faults. It was that he _mostly_ didn’t mind them.

“You’re not,” Pete said. “You’re making excuses.”

Chasten ignored him. “I wanted to be there. The night you came home. I almost went. But I couldn’t be that guy who drove two hours to stand in a crowd for the chance to shake your hand for a second in front of some godforsaken camera.” 

Pete had to admit he hadn’t been thinking about things through Chasten’s perspective. It was a lot to ask. “You should have said something. We could have met privately. You could have stayed over.”

“I’m not doing that. I’m not your fuck buddy.”

Chasten didn’t say it unkindly, but he might as well have slapped him.

“That’s not what I mean. You know that’s not what I meant. You don’t need to protect your heart from me, Chasten. I’m not one of your psycho ex-boyfriends. I’m here because I want to see you, not because I want something from you.”

“You’re wrong, Peter. I do need to protect my heart. And yours.” Chasten drew in a deep breath. “I love you. I don’t mean I love you as a friend, although I do. I am _in love_ with you. Have been for longer than I’m willing to admit. There are undoubtedly better ways to deal with this, but here we are. This is the kind of messed up shit that happens when you fall for a boy in the closet.”

The words vibrated in Pete’s ear. _I love you. I love you_.

Pete came home from Afghanistan with two things: a collection of quality rugs and a newly vulnerable heart tentatively cradling a love he hoped would be returned. This should have been the happiest moment of his life.

“And you’re in love with me,” Chasten said. “You don’t have to say it.”

“How?”

“Our FaceTime conversation.”

_Pete burst out laughing when Chasten came onto the screen._

_“Nice bedhead. You’ve got a very Dennis the Menace look going on there.”_

_“There are these things called time zones, and it’s six in the morning in this one,” Chasten said. “I would threaten to hang up on you, but I’m half asleep and I’ve forgotten which button does that.”_

_Pete tried not to smile too much, not to seem over eager. He and Chasten had emailed a bit over the course of his deployment, but this was their first time seeing each other since… well. He imagined his face was betraying the inner (but nonexistent) calm he hoped to convey._

_Chasten started furiously swiping at his hair. Pete made a gesture with his hands for him to stop._

_“I was teasing. You look cute.”_

_Chasten cocked an eyebrow. “Cute?”_

_“Is that okay? I don’t know what the rules for these things are.”_

_“The rules are whatever we make them. I’m merely questioning your judgement if you think this,” he waved a hand over his early morning appearance, “is cute.”_

_“I’ve seen it before. I liked it.” It came out much more flirty than he intended. But he realized that was what he was doing. Flirting. God, he was awful at this. Poor Chasten._

_A whistle rang out from across the room. Each computer had its own little cubby, but if you wanted to overhear someone, you could. One of his fellow officers had finished his own call home and had apparently decided to tune into Pete’s. They were really lacking for entertainment on base these days._

_“Talking to your boyfriend, Buttigieg?”_

_He did not say this because he thought actually Pete was gay. No, this was just some casual, run-of-the-mill homophobia brought to you courtesy of the US Navy._

_Pete hit the button to mute Chasten’s side of the conversation._

_“No, uh, just a friend.”_

_“But you want more. A lot more. I can hear it in your voice, bro.”_

_“It’s… complicated.”_

_“You look like a sad little puppy dog. Man, you’re in deep. You in love with this friend?”_

_Pete sighed. He didn’t know why he was about to confide in dudebro extraordinaire here, but, honestly, he wanted to test admitting it out loud. _

_“Yeah, I am. It’s incredibly inconvenient.”_

_“When isn’t it? But you managed to get elected mayor of your hometown when you were— what?— twelve? You can find a way to make this happen.”_

“I think you meant to mute me.” Chasten slumped in his chair. “We’ve made a right mess, haven’t we?”

“I am going to come out.”

“You have a plan?” Chasten sounded skeptical. “You’ve told your parents, your friends, your staff? You’ve hired the sky writer?”

“It’s not going to be that easy for me. You know that. I have to be strategic in how and when I do it. Coming out to every person close to me first takes time.”

“And I want you to have that time. Have you heard about this so-called religious freedom bill your Governor is proposing? It gives bigots a blank check to fire LGBTQ individuals from their job, kick them out of their homes, refuse to serve them in business.”

Pete nodded. His staff had kept him up to date. “It’s horrific.”

“It’s also the world you live in. Your career relies in no small part on those same voters who sent Mike Pence to Indianapolis. You’re up for reelection next year, and I know you have feelers out there for a Senate run. You should really consider what you want. Take all the time you need. If you decide the risks are too high, I’ll understand. Don’t come out for me, because I’m hardly worth it. In the grand scheme of things, I’m just some guy.”

This was turning into some perverse O. Henry story. Chasten willing to sacrifice love for Pete’s career and Pete willing to sacrifice his career for love. And he knew Chasten’s insecurities and his own fears were getting in the way of the happy ending, but he didn’t know how to stop it. 

“I’m coming out for me, Chasten. This is something I’ve realized I have to do.”

“You know I support you no matter what. I just need to remove myself from the equation. Give you space to figure things out.”

“So that’s it?” Pete realized he probably sounded bitter. He didn’t care.

“If you need me, really need me, I’ll be there. Like I said, the rules are what we make them. And right now, this is the boundary I require. I know I promised nothing between us had to change. It turns out I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.”

*****

On his drive home, Pete realized he hadn’t said the words. I love you. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

He went to bed knowing the memory that once gave him such comfort was now going to haunt his dreams.

_“I’m going to make you so happy, Peter Buttigieg.”_


	8. 2015

\- 2015 -

Pete closed his laptop. The coming out story he’d started seven years ago on a cocktail napkin at a pub in Michigan was finally complete. Sent off to the editor of the Tribune to run the next morning as an op-ed.

He emailed it to Chasten. He didn’t receive a response.

*****

He’d prepared for every possibility. Inappropriate, bordering on lewd, questions from reporters. Veiled insinuations from political opponents that he was trying to get ahead of some disqualifying scandal. Epithets hurled his way out the windows of moving cars.

But this? This was unexpected. Someone had broken into his house.

He stood on his front porch, phone in hand with the numbers nine and one already dialed. He wondered if the intruders were spray painting FAG on his walls or actually there to rob him and debated which one was worse.

He hated today.

It did strike him that he was not dealing with a _very good_ burglar. It seemed every light in his house was on and he could see the shadow of someone moving around. And was that Beyoncé?

He carefully pushed open the door and padded through his front hall.

“What are you doing here?”

Chasten was in the process of tearing apart his kitchen. A large stockpot was boiling over on the stove and pop music was blaring out of a phone propped up on a cookbook.

“Looking for your potato masher,” Chasten said, his tone casual as if Pete should have been expecting him.

“Chasten,” he said with as much patience as he could muster, which was not much, “How did you get in?”

“I used the spare key you keep under the mat. Really unsafe hiding place, by the way. Someone could find it and break in.”

“Yes. I would hate that.”

Chasten marched over to his stove and started fiddling with the knobs on the decades old appliance. “I can’t figure out how to work your broiler.”

“What’s a broiler?”

Chasten stared at him. “How are you still alive?”

Pete put down his briefcase, pocketed the spare key left on his island, and loosened his tie. He started up the stairs to change.

“Go home, Chasten,” he called out behind him.

When he came back down, now clad in a pair of soft sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, Chasten was hovering over his dining table, dishing out a mixture of roasted salmon and green beans with baby potatoes. Pete had to admit it smelled delicious. He grabbed a box of cereal from the cupboard and a bowl.

“What are you doing?”

“Making dinner.” He poured milk over his Cap’n Crunch.

“While I would hate to get in the way of your recommended daily allowance of crunch berries, I made dinner already. Involving actual food.”

Pete shoved the spoon in his mouth defiantly. “I’m not doing this.”

“What? Vitamins?”

“Getting sucked into Chastenworld. Where everything is bright and beautiful and chaotic and alive. And when you’re there, your vision goes from monochrome to technicolor and you feel like you’re seeing for the very first time.”

“Chastenworld sounds like a trippy theme park.” Chasten was keeping his voice airy, but Pete heard a slight waver. He needed to rip the bandaid off quickly.

“It’s the magic fucking kingdom. Problem is, it’s not real. Once the music stops, and the show packs up, you’re left with nothing. Because even though you enjoyed the circus, it was the ringmaster you wanted all along.”

“I’m not sure this is your best ever metaphor, Peter. What are you saying?”

“That if you wanted to see me, you could have called. You didn’t need to bring along a performance.” He grabbed a clean plate and started dividing up Chasten’s carefully displayed meal. “And if you’re going to spend an hour making me dinner, you’re going to eat too. Sit down.”

Chasten shook his head. “This is your day. I’m here to take care of you. Besides, I used a ton of butter. Both because I know you like it and because I misread the recipe. It’s not really in my diet right now.”

Pete shot him what he hoped was a commanding glare. “And no more talk like that. I’m getting a beer. Want one?”

“Sure.” Chasten relented to take his seat at the table. “You’re right. I should have called. I was worried you would reject me, and I didn’t want to give you the opportunity. I have regrets about how our last conversation ended. I wanted to reach out earlier, but I was scared. When I think of you going through this process alone… I should have been here.”

Pete reached out to pat Chasten’s hand. “You’re here now.”

Chasten returned a shy smile. “How was it? Today.”

“Both amazing and terrible.” 

He’d received dozens of supportive messages from friends and acquaintances, some who were hearing about his identity for the first time and eager to express acceptance, others who already knew and were offering moral fortitude. It surprised him, the source of some of his most enthusiastic new allies— people he’d served with who tended to use homophobic slurs as verbs, nouns and adjectives reached out to appologize and let him know they had his back.

But then there were the long stares that made him feel like a zoo animal. The Republican lawmaker who went public with his “concerns” that South Bend’s homosexuals might receive governmental favoritism. Which made Pete wonder where all these gay residents were hiding, because he’d never felt so alone.

“To the start of the rest of your life.” Chasten held up his bottle. Pete would drink to that. “It does get better.”

“What I’m stuck on is how much hasn’t changed. I was scared of coming out for so long, feeling like my entire world would implode, that I forgot the next morning I would put on my pants just like usual.”

“Yeah, we need to talk about the pants...”

Pete ignored that. “It’s comforting to think tomorrow will be a regular day. I’ll wake up in my bed and drive my car to my job and do my work.”

He took a swig of his beer and swallowed hard. 

“And I’ll be in love with you. Like I was yesterday. And today. And the day after tomorrow. Probably forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” Chasten said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then just until the end of the earth. Maybe the intergalactic universe, depending on how the future goes.”

Chasten laughed, but Pete could tell he was holding back tears. “I used to hate when you called me a kid. But, God, I was such a kid. With a massive crush on his professor. I’ll spare you some of the details.”

Pete sandwiched one of Chasten’s hands between his own. “You were a kid. Then I blinked, and you were a man. Now you’re the man I love.”

He took the spare key out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “You should use this until I can make a copy. I have neighbors who are retired, bored and have the eyesight of a hawk. The last thing I need is the press reporting that I had to bail my boyfriend out of jail.”

“Boyfriend,” Chasten said, almost in wonder. “I worried it wasn’t possible. That you couldn’t love me after everything. It all feels too easy.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s ever going to be easy, you and I. It’s never _been_ easy. But it’s worth it. How I feel about you hasn’t changed. But if we’re going to do this, you can’t flake on me. There are going to be times when we're not on the same page, and times when I mess up or say something stupid. When that happens you can’t run.”

“I’ve been looking for jobs in South Bend.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“I know where I want to be. I’m going to follow wherever you go. You’re never going to get rid of me.”

“When have I ever been able to get rid of you?”

Chasten stood up and wrapped his arms around Pete. “Hey,” he murmured into his ear. “Guess what? This guy I know very stupidly gave me the key to his house. Want to go upstairs and fool around in his bedroom for a while?”

Pete was up and out of his chair in record time. “Yep. Let’s absolutely do that.”

They raced and Pete let Chasten catch him.

*****

He paced back and forth. He played his piano double time, until he thought either his fingers or the keys might break. He made a show of checking the time on his phone. He hemmed and sighed.

Chasten would not be moved.

“We’re going to be late,” Pete said in a near whine.

“I told you I got stuck in traffic.”

“And the hour you’ve spent picking out an outfit?”

His boyfriend emerged from the bathroom, rolling up his cuffs. “You exaggerate. This is our first official public date. You’re introducing me to society, and I want to make a good impression. Imagine if voters find out you’re dating a guy who can’t match his shoes to his belt.” 

He gave Pete a very pointed look.

“We’re going to the pub and then a minor league ballgame. It’s hardly society.”

“It’s still a date. And, when going out a boy you really like, it’s tradition to make a big fuss and get flustered ahead of time.”

Pete leaned in for a kiss. “I’m just eager to show you off. South Bend is going to fall in love with you. Same as I did.”

Chasten brightened a little. “I’ll be the city’s First Gent.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What are my municipal powers?”

“Well, you certainly won’t be in charge of any clocks.”

Chasten surrendered. “I’m ready. Let me grab you a sweater.”

Pete held onto his hand. “Have I ever told you how happy you make me?”

Chasten smiled and fixed Pete’s hair. It was getting too long again and all swoopy around his forehead. 

“We’d better get going, Peter. There’s a world out there for us to conquer.”


	9. 2018

\- 2018 -

The glint off the gold band caught his attention. His ring was still shiny and new, and Pete was getting used to wearing it. He twisted it around his finger, a nervous bad habit he was developing.

He didn’t know how many people were in the crowd. His staff hinted at thousands. All packed into the old Studebaker factory on a rainy afternoon, the water leaking through the decaying concrete and onto the spectators. Still, they remained.

He stepped upto the podium and told them a story. About how a decade earlier, he met a student who shaped his view of the world and helped him find his place in it. How watching this young man work up to three jobs at a time influenced his policy on raising the minimum wage. How this student’s fear of seeking medical attention made him aware of the ways the Affordable Care Act needed to be improved. How this young person had been the victim of the hate that festers in our hearts, and how he had the courage not to let hate infect his own.

Intellectually, he’d understood these things. Poverty, food insecurity, homelessness, the cost of higher education. However, it wasn’t until seeing it through the eyes of someone he loved that he understood his responsibility in changing the country that allowed those things to happen. If not for this student, he wouldn’t be on this stage today.

He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.

“Are you daydreaming about your Inauguration again?”

Chasten stood outside the kitchen, clutching a laundry basket. Pete didn’t like that he knew him so well.

“My announcement speech, actually.”

He reached around for the closest paper product within reach. He needed to write down some of what he’d been thinking before he lost it. He grabbed a pen and started jotting down notes on a napkin.

Chasten sighed. “Why can’t you ever fake accept a Tony award? I want to meet Lin-Manuel Miranda.”

As if someone with his singing and dancing ability would ever be allowed near the Tonys. Even for a fantasy world, that was a bit of a stretch.

“And may I remind you that you’re supposed to be emptying the dishwasher?”

“Under protest,” Pete said. “We agreed this was your job.”

“Well, we came to a new agreement last night.” Chasten smirked, the cheeky bastard.

“You use unfair negotiation tactics.”

“Tell it to The Hague, Love.”

Pete stared at him in confusion. “That’s my term of endearment.

Chasten shrugged. “I’m testing it out.”

“And how does it feel?”

“Like I should be smoking a cigar while you twilight birth our children. I’ll leave the old timey romantic hero stuff to you.”

“I am not a romantic hero.”

“You’re certainly the hero of our story.”

“We don’t have a story.” Why were all the tops of all the glasses in the dishwasher still wet? It was driving him batty.

“We do, and it’s disgustingly romantic. There’s also a bit of melodrama, but that was mostly because of you.”

“That is what I’m known for,” Pete deadpanned.

“Dishwasher, Peter,” Chasten called out as he headed for the laundry machines, Truman nipping at his heels.

He stared down at some of what he’d scribbled:

_It is time to walk away from the politics of the past and toward something totally different. My name is Pete Buttigieg. I am a proud son of South Bend, Indiana, and I am running for President of the United States._

Maybe he would run for President one day for real.

He looked over at Chasten, who was losing a game of tug of war with the dog.

Maybe he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> Thank you to those of you who stuck out this drawn-out drama. I‘m grateful for every comment and every bit of support. I’m sure this story is riddled with errors and incorrect wordage, and I appreciate how we all ignored that.


End file.
